


The Finish Line

by sandwich_armada



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Nick's bicycle thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:05:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1314148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwich_armada/pseuds/sandwich_armada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick's got an hour and twenty-five minutes left on this fucking bicycle, and he's not going to make it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Finish Line

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration credit goes to eloiserummaging, who said "Harry hops on a bike and does the last miles with him" in a longer conversation about The Bike Thing on twitter, and then an hour later I had this lil ficlet. First thing I've written in absolutely ages! Thanks to eloise, and also to lately, thatjenn and sunsetmog for reading it through and saying I should hit 'post'. Any remaining mistakes are all me. 
> 
> This is not real, utterly untrue, and is going to be Jossed super hard on Monday anyway. If your name is Nick Grimshaw, do not not NOT read this fiction. This is Not For You.

Nick's got an hour and twenty-five minutes left on this fucking bicycle, and he's not going to make it.

He's done really, really well for most of today; staying positive, distracting himself from the ache in his over-tired muscles by chatting breathlessly to his co-riders (Wretch and Angel had kept him bantering for ages, and Daisy's off-air dirty jokes had nearly made him fall off the bike, he was laughing so hard) but he doesn't have anything left over for chat anymore. All Nick's good for now is staring down at the handlebar of his bike, dimly watching his own knees pumping up and down in his peripheral vision, and trying not to cry. Because there are cameras, and people watching, and Nick is not a beautiful or a graceful weeper.

The humid air of the inside of the box feels like it's burning the lining of his oesophagus as he gasps for air, his carefully-learned breathing techniques from the Professor gone completely out the window. He can feel the trembling weakness in his arms as he struggles to hold himself up, fingers going sweaty and swollen in his cycling gloves. His ankles feel fundamentally broken, his knees are shot through with agony, and he didn't know there was such a thing as the pain shooting like lightning bolts of sheer misery from his poor arse up the whole length of his spine.

He's been through denial, anger, bargaining, and a good solid chunk of depression, and he's come out the other side and accepted the fact that he is actually going to die here, on this bike, in front of all these people.

At least, Nick thinks (flashing back to the trembling of his fingers as he'd hit the send button in the middle of the night, the sickening swoop of his stomach when he'd woken up and seen the tell-tale 'Read' under the blue bubble where he'd poured his heart out, but no reply), he'll go to his grave having told the truth. Finally.

Somewhere beyond the horrible fugue state he's fallen into, Nick dimly registers a surge in the background noise of the crowd outside the box, and that someone is saying his name. He can barely find the breath for it, but he manages to grunt out a (probably quite rude-sounding) "What?" without bothering to raise his head up.

"Nick," Finchy repeats, his voice gone all weirdly gentle and encouraging; Nick had found it patronising an hour ago, but it's strangely nice right now, "Nicky, someone else is here to see you."

Nick is trying to fit enough air in his lungs to snap at Fincham that he's really done with being nice to people who are all fresh and quick and energetic whilst Nick's contemplating his own rapidly- approaching death, when a pair of very familiar looking trainers enter the very edge of his field of vision, and a voice from the very depths of Nick's own deepest, most desperate wishes says--

"Hiiiiii."

Nick didn't know he still had the energy left to snap his head up in surprise, but snap it up he does, and no. Nick's clearly losing his mind. No way. There is actually NO WAY this is really happening.

Harry grins at him, looking tanned and beautiful and so fucking real in the evening sunlight. "It's happening, Grimmy, you're not losing your mind." Which, okay, maybe Nick said those last couple of thoughts out loud by accident. What little brain-to-mouth filter he ever possessed has clearly evaporated.

"But," Nick pants out, "You're in LA right now." Probably one of the stupider things he's ever said, but whatever, he's got a right to be confused.

"Nope," Harry says, grinning - if possible - even wider, "Got on a plane about--" he checks his stupidly fancy (beautiful) watch, "-- ten hours ago. I was afraid I'd get stuck in traffic coming from Heathrow or summat, but it was all alright."

It's probably really silly that Nick's getting properly emotional listening to Harry's lovely, familiar, Northern vowels in person, right in front of him. Probably. They'd only talked on the phone last week, after all. Besides, Nick's confusion is winning out over his sappy feelings.

"Uh... but like. Weren't you supposed -- to be there, still? For a while?" Nick's not at his most coherent.

Harry's smile goes softer, somehow, like he's smiling just for Nick now. "Well, yeah, I've got to go back and finish up some stuff later in the week, but, um. You texted me, and like." He pauses, looks down for a second as he scuffs one of his feet on the floor, and looks back up, right into Nick's eyes, with this bashful, fierce joy written all over his face. "I just sort of. Got on the next flight."

Nick knows he must still be pedalling, body on some kind of autopilot, but he can't feel it right now. All he can feel is the wellspring of hope he'd kept buried deep down in his foolish heart suddenly bubbling up, overflowing into his chest like a geyser.

"So, I figured I could pop by and snag one of these other bikes, if that's alright with everyone," Harry continues, and Nick registers, really very belatedly, that Harry's wearing his running kit, jogging bottoms and an old t-shirt, hair tied back in a faded scarf and pulled into a tiny ponytail behind that.

"Fine by us," says Finchy, wandering back over from the corner of the box where he, Ian and Fifi have probably been pretending not to eavesdrop (and hanging onto every word), "You've signed all your waivers, so you're good to go." He raises an eyebrow at Nick. "What do you think, Grimmy?"

Nick is grinning like an idiot. He can feel it in his face, but cameras be damned, he just doesn't care right now. "Yeah, alright then, pop star," he says, breathless from far more than just the exercise now, "Hop on, let's bring this thing home."

Harry's grin could probably rival Nick's for idiocy as he heads for the bike right next to Nick's, and clambers aboard. He gives a little wave to the growing crowd of fans on the other side of the glass (whose already-loud cheering grows noticeably, immediately louder), and glances sideways at Nick with a look Nick can feel on his skin, as surely as if Harry had stroked him with his fingertips. Nick wants to kiss him more than anything he has ever wanted in his whole life. If he gets through the next hour and a quarter, he has a feeling that he might finally get to.

Nick takes a breath, feels it right to the tips of his toes.

"What do you think," he says, "Race you to the finish line?"


End file.
